


Valjean, 1823

by spiderfire



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Catholic Character, Crisis of Faith, Drabble Collection, Gen, Imprisonment, Non-Consensual Violence, Toulon Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-09 20:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderfire/pseuds/spiderfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thirteen months of Valjean's life that begin in February of 1823 mark a period of tremendous upheaval and challenge for him.  He goes from mayor and respected business man to fugitive to prisoner to death row to lifer to fugitive to stay-at-home-dad to gardener.  He travels from M-s-M to Vars to Toulon to Paris.  This is a collection of story fragments that fall during this period.  I hope that they may some day coalesce into an actual story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ferrage - August 1823

**Author's Note:**

> I am fascinated by Valjean's year of 1823. I have written a couple of stories set in this year, but I clearly have more to say. The problem is, I have not found the story. I am going to use this as a repository for drabbles and story fragments that I have written set in 1823 and I welcome comments or suggestions or ideas - positive or negative.

Hard. 

Every touch on his body was hard. 

He sat on the stone floor of the courtyard. One of the paving stones under him was crooked; the hard edge of the stone dug into his leg and his leg was going numb. He longed to squirm, to relieve the pressure, but the guard’s hands on him were firm and the fingers bit into his shoulders. He could have broken the grasp if he had fought, but what would that gain him? A moment’s freedom, if even that, before the clubs rained down and he was forced to the ground. 

The guard’s hands pressed him back against the anvil, cold and smooth behind him. A moment ago, the blacksmith had put it in position, placing the flat metal plate up against the base of his spine. He remembered this moment from nearly a quarter of a century ago deep in his gut, the inexorable events when his freedom was taken from him. From this moment on, there would be the chain. For a while, it would be the collar, later the shackle, but unless he had more luck this time than before, he would die wearing chains. 

The last time he had lived through this, it had not been so. Five years was the promise. Five years during which time his sister’s kids would either grow or die. Five years had been a lie. 

This time it was different. 

As he was pushed back, he felt the touch of the steel anvil through his shirt. The chill of the metal rose, climbing up his spine to his shoulders. He closed his eyes as the hands released him. He did not want to see the gaping mouth of the hinged collar as the guard brought it up to his neck. 

The collar closed around his throat. The two ends that were to be joined were fit into their receptacles on the anvil with a dull click. He felt the size and shape of the collar for the second time in his life. The shiver that shook his frame had very little to do with the cold touch of the metal. 

Draping down his front, into his lap and a meter in front of him, was the chain that would join him to twenty-four other men for the next weeks. He took hold of it, gripping it in his hands and twisting it. 

He could feel through the anvil the quiet click as the blacksmith fit the rivet into its place. He bent his head forward and the collar bit into the soft skin of his throat. It was a terrible thing, to know exactly what to do. He held very still, not even breathing, as the heavy hammer strikes came down barely a finger’s width from his skull. He could feel the wind as the hammer passed through his hair, tearing it out in a clump, yet still he did not move. Men were killed with a careless move. One. Two. Three. Three tremendous blows reverberated through his bones. Three tremendous crashes and it was over. 

He sat up as the blacksmith lifted the anvil from behind him and he felt the weight of the collar and chain, a weight that was only partially physical, settle on his shoulders and through his limbs. The familiarity was of the sensation was sickening. Above him, the smith said something to the guard as he picked up his tools and moved on to the next man. 

Impotently chained, they turned their backs on him. He was forgotten as they set up for the next rivet. 

He shifted his weight so he no longer sat on the uneven cobblestone. A rush of warm blood returned to his tingling leg.


	2. Jeanne's youngest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean Valjean sees a disturbingly familiar face.

"Did you see that?" 

Valjean stood in line with the rest of the inmates, waiting to go to the day's worksite.  He stood with his head down, his shoulders hunched, his green cap pulled low over his eyes.  He was drawn into his thoughts and he was not paying attention to the chatter around him.  Something about that voice cut through his reverie and caught his attention.  He looked up and peered around the men in front of him, trying to identify the speaker.  

"…no, you will see.  Watch…" 

Valjean thought he had the man picked out.  Two ahead of him in line.  Average height, with his back to him. There was not much else Valjean could make out except that the deep burnt brown color of the man’s neck suggested he had been here for a while.

A guard opened the gate and the convicts shuffled forward. The guard’s hammer rang out with a sharp clang as each man stepped up to the door and held out his leg and its chain for inspection.  

For some reason, the man ahead of Valjean turned and looked back over his shoulder.  Valjean felt his knees falter recognized a ghost.  The eyes that looked past him from deep sockets, the slight cleft in the chin, even the nose - perhaps broken in some fight years before - were all the same.  He was looking into a face that he had not seen in nearly half a century.  He was looking into the face of his father.  All but the eyes.  The eyes were wrong.  Instead of his papa's dark brown, bright blue eyes met his without recognition.  The color made him think of Anton, the man Jeanne had married all those years ago.  

His eyes widened and he took a step back, knocking into his chain-mate who jostled him roughly back.  The voice, he realized now, the inflection and the tone, that was how his father used to speak.  The accent was off, it had more of the twang of Paris than the gentle drawl of Faverolles, but the sound of the voice was the same.  

 _Dear lord_ , he prayed.   _P_ _lease let me be wrong._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read an essay in Fourth City, which is a collection of essays by incarcerated Americans. One of the essays was by a father who was serving a life sentence. While he was in prison, first one and then another and then another of his children were also imprisoned for one thing or another. This pattern is all too common. "Children who experienced the incarceration of a parent from the age of 6 or younger were more than twice as likely to be convicted of a criminal offense between the ages of 19 and 30 compared with children who did not have a parent incarcerated during early childhood.”


End file.
